


You Breathe, Alive

by geckoholic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: ohsam, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-10
Updated: 2011-02-10
Packaged: 2017-10-18 02:05:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/183785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>A month since Death gave him his soul back, two weeks since they left Bobby's, and this is their third case since then.</em> - Takes place in the netherland between 6.12 and 6.13, and is most likely soon to be Gamble'd: Dean's walking on eggshells around Sam, still affected by robo!Sam's behaviour and worried anything he says might cause crack - until Sam's almost taken from him again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Breathe, Alive

**Author's Note:**

> For the Sam-focused h/c challenge at ohsam, for [this prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/ohsam/81661.html?thread=665085#t665085) by mimblexwimble. I swear, the minute I saw the prompt, I promised myself not to get stuck on the 'bury' in it and go for a more, uhm, interpretive approach. Naturally, I failed. The prompt inspired the casefile element, the buried!Sam can be seen as bonus to meet the challenge requirements. (In conclusion: Probably not what the prompter had in mind. Apologies for that.) 
> 
> In my opinion, the conversation between Sam and Dean at Bobby's was a little unclear on how much exactly Sam knows and what Castiel told him, especially since I'm not so sure about how much Castiel knows himself. For the sake of this fic, I go with the theory that Sam doesn't know about any specific events yet, just knows that he didn't have a soul and that his soulless self caused some mischief. And if you have a different take on that, hey, it's still buried!Sam? 
> 
> Beta'd by painted_pain, who worked through two different versions of this and probably deserves a medal for that. All remaining mistakes are mine. Also, many thanks to kelzies for the hand-holding. Again. ♥
> 
> Title is from "Breathe" by Disturbed.

  
_The first thing that registers when Sam opens his eyes is how close the wooden surface above him is to his face. He thinks he must be lying on his stomach, for a moment, until his sense of balance informs him that he doesn't._

_No, he's lying on his back. In... something like a coffin, he realizes. There's no room to move, neither up nor to his left or his right. All he can do is arch his back a little or spread out his arms and legs for merely an inch to the side before his hands touch wood, and the closeness to the surface makes it impossible to lift up his head and get a look down his body. Not that he would see much if he could, it's pitch-dark._

_The air he inhales smells of muddy earth and rotten grass, and it's stale. There's no puff of wind at all._

_He's buried._

_With a bit of wriggling and shifting he manages to bring one hand up to the top of the box, feels it, knocks against it with one finger crooked, applies some pressure with his palm flat on the wood. Instantly, dirt ripples out from above him, onto his face, and he has to cough._

_That's when panic kicks in._

  
***

  
THREE DAYS EARLIER

When Sam steps out of the gas station's shop, hands full of coke and beer and snacks, Dean's leaning against the side of the Impala and staring at his phone. He does that a lot, probably thinks Sam won't notice; he's not calling Lisa, just staring at the number without dialling.

Sam's stomach twists at the sight every single time. Another thing that gives him the feeling that he broke something he can't fix while he was, well, incomplete. Dean won't talk about it much, he's afraid any word he says might cause that ominous wall in Sam’s head to break, but he doesn't have to. Like with so many other things Sam just instinctively knows, by the way Dean looks straight ahead or to the ground whenever her name is mentioned, that it was his fault. That he did something that made it happen.

He reaches the car and Dean looks up to him, hastily putting his phone away. Making a gimme-gimme motion with his hands until Sam hands him the six-pack and a bag of Jack Link's, he plasters on something that a stranger might've mistaken for a light-hearted smile and gets into the car.

Sam follows.

A month since Death gave him his soul back, two weeks since they left Bobby's, and this is their third case since then. The memories from before, from the time in which his body was walking around without a soul, come back to him slowly. All he's got so far is fragments, bits and pieces that make no sense, mundane snapshots that don't reveal any of the big picture. That, and Dean's behaviour. He's trying to cover it up, play it down, but he's still somewhat guarded around Sam, keeps his distance, both physically and emotionally.

Sam can tell it's not intentional, or got anything to do with the lack of trust. Dean's enjoying his company in a way that he hasn’t for a long time, since the pit and the different brand of hell that followed after, but it's just another thing Sam just knows, sees it as if it's painted on Dean's forehead: sometimes Dean's subconscious warns him that it's not really Sam he's dealing with, makes him react on instinct before his brain can jump in and set the record straight.

"Dean -", Sam starts, but he doesn't get any further. Dean cuts him off with a 'shhh', already chewing, and keeps him silent with a stern look until he's swallowed.

"Don't start with that bullshit again - you have that look, I can tell - we got more important things to talk about, case ain't gonna solve itself. Right?"

Sam cocks his head to the side, sighs.

"Right?" says Dean, his tone more urgent but barely above a whisper, almost pleading, and Sam nods kind of against his will. That tone, it hits a nerve; it renders Sam incapable of anything other than trying to make it go away, makes it impossible to keep prodding. His body defaults, responds before his brain even had time to decide.

And anyway, even though they'll have to talk about it eventually, this isn't the time or the place.

When he continues to recount the facts of the case, Dean's smile becomes more honest, grateful, knowing he’s successfully dodged the topic for now. "Four people dead, two teenagers and a mother and her adult daughter. All of them buried alive in shallow graves in the local cemetery."

  
***

  
 _More shifting, and Sam manages to get his hands into his pockets, rummage around in them. The one thing he'd hoped for, his cell, isn't there, but he comes up with his zippo. There's a brief moment of triumph, before it dawns to him that he doesn't have enough space in this grave -_ oh god, a fucking grave _\- to use it without risking setting himself or the box on fire._

  
***

  
TWO DAYS EARLIER

"Cops don't have much else to go by than what was in the papers. I suggest we visit the dude that claims he got possessed next." Dean loosens his tie while climbing into the car, tosses it to the back seat once he's folded himself behind the wheel.

"Do you think he's telling the truth? Doesn't really seem like a demon's MO to me." When he reaches to the back seat himself, to produce the file with the name and address of the psych ward where their witness is kept now, Sam's shoulder brushes his brother's body, and Dean's not flinching, exactly, but he turns away from the touch.

It's just a brief moment, seconds later Dean's all smiles and easiness again, rambling away about, _yeah, you’re right, demons are unlikely, but maybe a ghost possession?_ All the while he keeps his gaze fixed on Sam, eyes silently begging him not to push, not to ask again, not to make Dean say things out loud that he's afraid might cause a crack.

The sick feeling in Sam's belly makes another comeback. He has to look away from Dean, opens the file and skims the data on the victims while Dean starts the car and backs out of their parking space.

When he finds something interesting, he stops himself halfway before touching Dean's arm to get his attention. "Those teenagers? They were half-siblings. Same father, different mothers."

  
***

  
 _Sam may be imagining it, but it seems as if he's slowly running out of oxygen down here. He tries to keep his breathing shallow and his panic at bay, but that only serves to almost make him hyperventilate._

_Then he closes his eyes for a second, pinches himself in the leg through his jeans to ground himself. It's symbolic at best, doesn't hurt at all through the fabric, but the sense memory of the ritual itself helps anyway. Something he learned from Dean when he was a teenager and kept zoning out during his first hunts at night: a little jolt of pain keeps you sharp._

_And there's no reason to lose his mind just yet, he tells himself. Dean's going to be here soon. He's on this, he'll have it all figured out in no time, that fucking spirit will get salted and burnt and Sam will be save._

_Unless..._

  
****

  
THE DAY BEFORE

"We're going to go tonight?" Sam leans back in his chair, closes the laptop and turns to Dean, who's sitting on the bed with a milkshake. It's almost empty, the last bits of fluid make a gurgling noise when Dean sucks them through the straw, and Sam tries hard to be annoyed.

It did turn out to be a ghost. After some skimming through local lore and old newspapers they found out about a gravedigger who worked at the local cemetery years ago and whose wife went missing at the age of thirty, pregnant at the time. Years later, when the graveyard went through some administrative changes, it came to light that he dug up a few more graves than he'd been supposed to, and he didn't get rid of the habit once he was dead.

"Why not? We know who we're after, we're all stocked up on salt and gasoline, and, oh, kinda running out of time," says Dean in his best 'pointing out the obvious to a retard'-voice as he throws the now completely empty cup towards the bin, misses it, curses under his breath and gets up. "The same circle for almost a century: every twelve years, three pairs of people somehow related to each other go missing over the course of a week and turn up in shallow graves, and then the spook's over for another decade." He picks up the cup, places it in the bin, and slinks back over to the bed. "In case it escaped your attention, we're already up to four people, another set of victims and that's it for this time."

"That's exactly my point. Do you really think it's a brilliant idea that we go after it? What with the two of us being brothers, therefore related, and hitting the victim profile dead on?" He can't help it; he’s just got a bad feeling about this.

But Dean won't be swayed. "Sam, don't be ridiculous. We'll have the motherfucker roasted before he even knows what's happening, be back here before dawn and on the road by check-out. Are you with me or do I have to do it alone?" he says, taking the remote in hand again and worrying at the buttons with his fingernails.

Sam turns on his chair, makes a pause for effect, causing Dean to look up and into his eyes before he answers. As if he'd let Dean do that - go against a spirit with a body count like that and a habit to possess people - without any backup, and suddenly it's very important to make Dean _get_ that. When he answers, it's with a strong voice and accentuating every word: "I'm with you."

  
***

  
 _No, he won't even think about that. If the ghost got to Dean as well they're both royally fucked, and they've been through too much to go out like this._

_That's just not happening._

_Despite his better judgement, Sam begins to feel the box up again, more carefully this time. The top first, then the sides and the bottom; he's not sure what he's looking for, but if he doesn't do something, he'll go crazy for sure._

_While his fingers wander along the wood searching for any point that offers him some leverage - even though he knows it won't do him much good with god knows how many inches or even meters of earth above him - he tries to concentrate on anything else than the image of Dean in a box like this, a box so much like the one he came back in and had to dig himself out of, and what that'd do to his brother._

_No. He concentrates on the things he'll do to that thing if it dared to lay a hand on Dean instead and finds that that grounds him just as good as a little pinch. It's a damn good motivation, too._

  
***

  
THE DAY BEFORE

Waiting for nightfall so that they can sneak into the graveyard unseen is unexpectedly awkward.

Even at their worst, after hell and with Ruby around, they knew how to kill time when there's nothing else to do than wait. They'd watch TV and bitch about the bullshit that's on, play cards for laundry duty, or be content to just each do their thing in silence; god only knows how many hours they spent with Sam having his nose in books or in front of the laptop and Dean taking care of their weapons, not a word said for hours and it never felt weird.

Not like right now. Sam shut the laptop roundabout an hour ago, doesn't even know what to look for anymore since the case is pretty much a standard salt-and-burn and the research on it is done, and Dean's lying on the other bed, tapping the remote control against his thigh even though the TV is turned off.

They're perfectly in tune as if nothing ever happened when they have their work to concentrate on, but when that's not the case, if Dean smells an opportunity that Sam might use to prompt a talk about those 18 months, Dean gets fidgety. He tries to choke off _any_ conversation, even if it just starts out as small talk.

Maybe getting them out of this room will help. "Dean, do you want to go grab some burgers? I think I've seen a diner on the way here yesterday, we could -"

"Not hungry." He doesn't even turn, just continues to stare at the black television screen.

And that's it. Sam's finally had it, no matter now afraid Dean is of the consequences.

"Just fucking tell me already."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "Come again?"

"What happened, while I was gone? What did I do to you?"

A few seconds pass before Dean eventually looks up, staring Sam straight in the eye, and for a moment Sam thinks Dean will answer. Really answer, not replay the same way out he's been using since Sam's got his soul back.

But it doesn't last.

"Nothing," he says, eyes downcast. "You didn't do anything. I told you, I won't hold you responsible for what that other Sam did."

"There wasn't any other Sam, you know that, right? It's all been a part of me, which actually does make me responsible." He hears his own voice grow louder, angrier at the end of it, and makes takes a deep breath in order to keep himself calm. Yelling isn't going to get him anywhere.

"You were... That wasn't you," Dean insists. "I don't blame you for anything."

"Like hell you don't."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Dean, you're walking on eggshells around me. All we talk about are cases, which motel we're picking, whose turn it is for a food run or whether or not we should stop at a gas station or wait for the next. You're so afraid of hitting the wrong topic, saying the wrong thing, and sometimes you feel uncomfortable around me." Dean opens his mouth to deny, but Sam puts his hand up to silence him. "Don't think I didn't notice that. But I can't keep apologising without knowing what it is I'm sorry for."

"Nothing to be sorry for, you don't need to apologise", Dean parrots.

Sam buries his face in his hands, runs a hand through his hair in frustration. "Then tell me, what's up with you and Lisa? You guys were still together when you joined me, Bobby told me, and now you don't even dare to call her."

A few moments pass in silence, and Sam can practically hear the gears in his brother's head turning, desperately searching for an escape route out of this conversation.

He finds one.

"You know what? Burgers sound awesome. I'm suddenly starving."

Before Sam even has time to answer, Dean all but jumps off the bed and starts to put on boots and jacket.

  
***

  
 _He's so tired, all of the sudden. No way to know how much time passed since he came to, how long he's been out of it before. There's a throbbing headache coming on, getting worse with every beat of his heart, his throat is sandpaper-dry and his back aches._

_Something inside him still knows that's bad, that it's a sign that the oxygen in here is getting low, but the much bigger part of him doesn't care and just wants to rest._

_Just for a minute. He'll close his eyes for just a minute._

  
***

  
THE DAY BEFORE

At first, it seems as if Dean where right: they find the grave, open it, douse the remains in gasoline, light the match and watch the fire catch and spread through the coffin.

That's when Sam turns around, about to gather their things, and looks straight into the not-face of the ghost, recognising him from a photo in an old news article.

"Dean!" He doesn't wait for his brother to react, just grabs Dean's sleeve and drags him along, almost stumbling.

The ghost on their heels, they head for a utility shed they saw on their way to the grave. Once inside, Dean uses the small sack of salt he's still holding to pour a line at the doorway and buy themselves a moment to think.

"Woah! What the hell?", Dean yells, still crouched down, while Sam leans back onto the door, panting more from the rush of adrenalin than from the physical effort.

It takes him a moment to calm his breathing enough to answer. "Guess those weren't the only remains."

"Oh, you think?!"

Sam reaches into his jacket pocket to get the article stashed there and his zippo, lights it, then reads aloud. "The Miller's had a cabin in the woods near the cemetery, to which Charles Miller moved after his wife disappeared." He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, then turns to Dean. "It says here that he lived there until his untimely death 12 years later. Timeframe sound familiar to you?"

"Fuck. Do you think there's something left behind in that cabin? Something that counts as remains?"

"Probably."

"Then let’s go, check it out. Worth a shot," Dean says and peers through the keyhole.

Sam's a little reluctant to leave the momentary safety of the shed, but follows when Dean gets up and steps outside. Next time he has a bad feeling about a hunt? He's not going to stop bugging Dean until they're on their way out of town.

They don't get far, and the last thing Sam remembers before the world goes black for a while is being thrown against a gravestone, hard.

  
***

  
PRESENT

"Sam? Come on, dude, open your eyes. Don't do this to me, I just got you back." Dean's hand is stroking along his arm, comes to rest at his shoulder and grabs tight. "Sam, _please_!"

With a bit of an effort, Sam manages to pry open one eye, then the other. His head hurts, and bad. He blinks to bring the world into focus, lets Dean drag him into a standing position and then half-carry him out of the grave.

During the short walk to the car, he isn't aware of much else than Dean's body, warm by his side and taking most of his weight, and he's out of it again as soon as he's seated in the passenger seat.

  
***

  
The next time Sam comes back to himself, Dean's hand rests on the back of his neck, and he's holding a glass of water right in front of Sam's face. There's a worried, apologetic look on Dean's, and the 'worried', Sam gets, but he's not sure what to make of the 'apologetic'.

"I would just let you sleep it off, but we have to get some water into you, and I'm worried you might have a concussion."

Sam knows he's supposed to say something, but all he can do is stare at Dean's face. There's bile pooling in the back of his throat, and he's afraid he'll throw up all over his brother's front if he so much as opens his mouth.

"Come on, drink it something."

The glass is brought up closer to his face, touches his lips, and Sam finally does as he's told, tentatively takes a sip, then another. His head is still throbbing, but it gets better with each sip and he gestures to Dean for a refill after he downed the whole glass.

"What happened?" he asks when Dean gets back from the kitchen counter, hands him the glass.

Dean sighs. "You were right, is what happened. Not the right job for us." He runs a hand over his face, shifts where he's sitting on the edge of the bed. "He knocked us both out, but only took you. Guess he wanted to get one of us down under, then go back for the other. When I came to, you were gone. So I went for to look for you, or for the cabin, whichever I'd find first."

"Which was?"

"The cabin. With a little added surprise underneath the floorboards. Guess where Mrs. Miller ended up?"

"You're kidding me."

"Nope. Psycho lived atop of his dead wife for over a decade. She wore a necklace, with locks of both their hair in an amulet." A scowl, and Dean's face scrunches up in disgust for emphasis. "So, I burnt that, too, and then went to find you."

Letting out a hiss Sam sits up straight after he's emptied the glass again, and Dean immediately hovers closer. His eyebrows scoot up, a wordless question if Sam's ok, if he needs something else.

Sam smiles in reply and can't help but drink his brother's concerned expression in. All of Dean's expressions, really; when he took the jump in Stull, he was sure he'd never see any of them again.

"You know, uh," Dean says then, running a hand over his face, "I guess you were right about something else, too."

"About what?"

"I am uncomfortable around you. It's not that I mean to, but, during those months, without a soul... You creeped me out, man." He sits up, grabs the glass from Sam's bedside table and goes to refill it once more.

"What did I do?" Sam has to push the words out past a lump in his throat. He's dying to finally find out, knows they need to put it all out in the open in order to get past it and that this might be a start to that, but at the same time he doesn't want to know what he's been capable of.

But Dean says nothing else.

He just turns to Sam, searches his gaze and smiles in way that makes a warm feeling spread in Sam's belly, and Sam knows, without a doubt, that they'll get through this.


End file.
